a tree of oil
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: Wirt encounters a witch. It doesn't end well. Part of The Pilgrim's Progress but can be read as a standalone.


Disclaimer: I do not own this marvelous show.

Technically part of my Beast!Wirt AU, which is apparently a thing now, but can be read as a standalone.

* * *

Wirt is traveling when he feels the faintest of… not tugs, exactly, because those are commanding and this is not, but… invitations. It's like someone is holding the door open for him, even though he's in the middle of a forest and there aren't a whole lot of doors around.

The sensation is odd enough to make him pause, his song falling silent. He looks in the direction of the weird feeling with glowing white eyes, head tilted slightly in consideration. Curiosity wars with caution.

Curiosity wins. It isn't like his destination is going anywhere, and Wirt is reasonably certain that he can creep away unnoticed if it's something dangerous. Still, he tucks the Dark Lantern into his satchel and wraps himself in shadows before walking towards the invitation-tug.

He reaches out with the forest-sense that is still a little strange to him. There's a house about a half-mile up ahead. A man stands in its door, his hands tight on the shoulders of two girls.

Wirt slows, feeling guilty. They probably heard his traveling song in the distance—his voice carries a lot further than it ought to—and must be spooked already, fearful that the dreaded Beast is in their vicinity. Then he frowns, because there's a sense of… blight, corruption, evil coming off that house. It's not the same as the sick spots in his forest that he's learning how to heal, but the taste of it is just as sour on his tongue.

He's closer now, near enough that his excellent night vision can make out the three shapes in the threshold. It's probably some kind of magical invitation, he reasons. But is it meant for him specifically (or, more likely, his predecessor), or is it supposed to ensnare anyone who gets too close? Spells don't work quite right on him anymore, he knows that in his bones. Perhaps the feeling that he perceives as an invitation is actually a compulsion, netting innocents and drawing them in.

"Beast?" the man calls. "Master, are you there?"

Wirt's eyebrow shoots up beneath his mask of shadows. _Master?_

It's obvious that the man—the witch, judging from the spell—has mistaken Wirt for the original Beast. That's not much of a surprise. What happened to the Beast is hardly common knowledge, though everyone in the Unknown noticed that _something_ had happened to him and that _something_ had happened when Wirt surrendered his soul to the Dark Lantern. There are plenty of rumors, but only a few people know the truth.

"Master!" the man calls again.

Wirt looks at the girl-children in the doorway. They're ramrod straight and visibly frightened. One has silent tears running down her face. The man is gripping their shoulders a bit too firmly for him to be comforting them.

A witch who apparently once worked for the Beast has a pair of frightened children in his clutches. Wirt still isn't certain what's going on, but he doubts it bodes well for those kids.

He needs to get them out of there. Heaven only knows what this person would do if no one stopped him.

Wirt glides out of the tree line, a tall black shadow with glowing white eyes. His lantern is in his hand again, the flames dancing. Darkness masks his face and form, obscuring the fact that he still looks mostly human. His cloak flows behind him like a black waterfall.

The crying girl makes a choked sound of distress as the Beast approaches on silent feet. The man's hand drops to her wrist. His fingers are chains around her arm.

"I ͜ąm he̕r̀e,̢ w̡it̀ch," Wirt says, adding a suggestion of eldritch echoes to his voice. Hopefully this person won't notice the differences between him and the real, original Beast. Wirt's antlers are smaller and more symmetrical, studded with summer edelwood leaves at the tines, and their voices are not quite as identical as he had once supposed. There's also the bit where Wirt actually has ears. Other than that, though, they look remarkably similar—at least when they are obscured in shadows like this.

Apparently Wirt's deception is convincing enough. The man bows low, ignoring the frightened frozen children at his side. "Master," he proclaims, "I present to you your tribute."

The formerly silent girl whimpers. Wirt can smell their terror, the odor rank and cloying in his nostrils.

"M͞y tribute̶," he repeats. By some miracle, his voice is calm and even. Inside, though, he is panicking, because this crazy person is offering him an actual, literal human sacrifice. Two of them.

He sincerely hopes that this sort of thing doesn't happen often.

He has a nasty feeling that it _does_.

"Yes, Master," the man confirms. "Your tribute. Either of these two children according to your preferences."

"I ̛se͠ę," says Wirt, because it feels like he should say something. He stares at the kids with what he hopes is a considering gaze as his mind races furiously.

His first impulse is to take one of the girls, bring her to the nearest town, and tell her story to the local authorities, but he has no idea what the witch is planning to do to the girl he doesn't pick. (There's also the complicated matter of explaining to a terrified child that no, he's not actually the Beast, he's not going to turn her into an edelwood tree, but he's probably going to have to do that anyways, so he ignores that thought.)

Actually, is there any reason that he can't just ask? This guy doesn't seem like the type to question his 'master.'

Wirt tilts his head. "Ąnd̨ wh̕at͟ exac̡tly ̵ḑo y̕ou ͡pl̢an̷ to d͡o ̸with t̴he other ̢one?"

The man… leers. There's really no other way to describe the ugly expression on his face. "Lots of things. They're both pretty enough."

It takes Wirt half a second to process this and another half-second to get over his shock. Then the anger—the boiling, incandescent _rage_ —sets in. Shadows writhe around him, and his burning eyes change from white to blue yellow pink.

He lashes out in his wrath, not physically, but with something else. It burrows into the witch's twisted soul and deep into the soil of the earth below them.

 _G͈͎̩r̭͇̥͈̱ow̫̗̞,_ Wirt commands. He is incapable of speech, too furious, but the edelwood obeys him without hesitation.

Vines wrap around the witch, their tendrils digging into his skin. He freezes, eyes bulging in shock and disbelief, but the twisting plants continue their growth. The ones at his feet thicken most quickly, plunging roots into the dirt beneath him.

The witch snaps out of his stupor then. He screams, a high thin cry of pure terror, and tries to run. He makes it two steps before the roots are too thick and heavy for him to continue.

The children bolt, but Wirt hardly notices them.

The witch is frantic now, trying to tear the vines off his skin, but they're too strong. He's begging, tears streaming from his eyes, but soon heartwood fills his lungs and bark crawls over his mouth, and then he can't even scream anymore.

Then it's over. An edelwood tree stands tall before its maker, black oil dripping from its frozen face.

It's over, and Wirt's anger fades enough for him to realize what he's done.

Wirt—Wirt the monster, Wirt the _Beast_ —staggers backwards, nearly tripping over the hem of his black cloak. He can't breathe. His heartbeat pounds staccato in his chest, loud as an accusation. He wants to throw up. He wants to scream. He wants—he wants—

He runs.

He's as swift as a stag, but that's not nearly fast enough to outrun what he's done. The edelwood—the tree that he made, the tree that had been a person just a few minutes ago—cannot move, but he feels its sightless stare follow him no matter how far he flees.

Wirt—the Beast, he _is_ the Beast—stops only when he reaches a stream and glimpses the reflection of his hateful white eyes. He cries out and jerks back. It's enough to interrupt the mad rhythm of his flight.

The Beast falls to his knees and weeps. His tears are black as oil, and plant life blooms where they hit the ground, hyacinths and brambles and white chrysanthemums. His entire body shudders with sobs, and windblown leaves wail in accompaniment.

Monster. Murderer.

Beast.

He can't stop replaying the incident in his mind: the witch's attempted escape, how he'd screamed, how those children had run in panicked terror….

The children. They're out there all alone in the middle of the forest at night. Even if they don't need to fear the Beast, there's all sorts of other things that could happen to them. They could fall and break a leg or get eaten by that wildcat he'd spotted earlier. And if they aren't in any immediate danger, they're probably more lost than ever.

He thinks about all the times he let Greg wander off and cringes in shame. These kids are only a few years older than his brother.

Swallowing hard, Wirt—the Beast—shuts his eyes and lets his mind wander, seeking lost children in the woods. He tries not to think about how his predecessor must have done the same thing thousands of times, though for very different reasons. The thought will make him sick if he focuses on it too long.

The children are about three miles away, one leaning on the other and trying not to put weight on her left leg. The other has a badly scraped elbow. They're covered in scratches and have brambles on their skirts. Tear-tracks leave red lines across their fear-pale faces.

He remembers what it's like to be lost and afraid, uncertain if he can ever get home. He remembers it far too well.

It doesn't take him long to reach the children. A couple hundred feet away, he pauses behind a sturdy oak, running his fingers through his hair to make certain that his antlers are truly gone, shapeshifted into nothingness. The light dims in his eyes as they return to human brown. Then he removes the Dark Lantern from its place on his belt, opens the latch, inserts a fallen branch that can act as an impromptu torch. After wrapping the very recognizable—especially since these poor kids have literally just seen him in his Beast guise—Dark Lantern in his spare cloak, he hides it in his satchel.

The last thing he wants is for them to realize who—what—he is. He's already traumatized them for life, no need to make it worse. Hopefully the lack of antlers and glowing eyes and echoes in his voice will disguise his identity.

(They ran from him just a couple of hours ago. Had they been screaming as they ran? He can't recall. He'd been too focused on the witch.

The witch had screamed. He remembers _that_ very clearly.)

Wirt's hands are shaking as he steps around the tree and calls out. "Ho, travelers!"

The girl with the scraped elbow jumps. She and her… sister? Friend? Cousin?... whip around, eyes wide and frightened in the light.

Wirt holds up his spare hand and tries to look harmless.

(He is _not_ harmless. He's never been more aware of that in his life. That edelwood had grown so _quickly_ , ensnaring someone who wasn't lost or hopeless or sick or injured and who should therefore have been beyond his power. Not for the first time, he wonders if he isn't somehow stronger than the first Beast… and not for the first time, he shudders away from the very thought of it.)

"Hello," says the limping girl. A moment of hesitation, then, "We're lost, sir. Can you help us go home?"

Wirt forces a false smile onto his face, something to hide his fear and grief and self-loathing. "Of course I will."

The girls exchange hesitant looks, then the one with the limp gives him a tentative little grin.

And Wirt's own expression, weak as it still may be, suddenly feels a little less fake.

* * *

Aw, they grow up so fast. One minute they're playing the clarinet and minding their own business, then they're turning evil witches into trees and helping kids get home.

So I guess I'm making an entire Beast!Wirt AU now. Cool. (It has devoured my soul. Please send help.)

-Antares


End file.
